


a list is born in the riverlands

by youheldyourbreath



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, arya goes south to finish her list, she has to face it all, the proposal and her list and life after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 21:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youheldyourbreath/pseuds/youheldyourbreath
Summary: The Riverlands had birthed her list. She had whispered the names in the rain, in the sun and in the mud. Even in the quiet contentment of Winterfell she could not forget the pledge she had made to her father and mother and brothers that had fallen at the hands of those that sought to destroy their family. Most of the names on her little list were dead. She had put them under ground or the God of Death had come to collect on her behalf. Only three remained.Arya whispered the names, “Joffrey, The Tickler, Polliver, Ser Amory Lorch, Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Ilyn Payne.”Clegane nodded, “All dead.”“Cersei, The Mountain….”“The Hound,” he finished for her, quietly.





	a list is born in the riverlands

**Author's Note:**

> so, 8x04 happened. and I personally think it was a good thing. arya has been through some shit and she isn't ready yet to let the past go. she needs to face it.  
> AND FANFICTION IS GONNA HELP HER DO THAT. hurraaaaaay.

She traveled through the Riverlands before, in another life, but it had been to get home. To Winterfell. She had fought, bled and nearly died to get back to the wintery walls and her family. Now, after barely a moon’s turn at her family home, she was riding away from the ruined castle walls.

The Riverlands had birthed her list. She had whispered the names in the rain, in the sun and in the mud. Even in the quiet contentment of Winterfell she could not forget the pledge she had made to her father and mother and brothers that had fallen at the hands of those that sought to destroy their family. Most of the names on her little list were dead. She had put them under ground or the God of Death had come to collect on her behalf. Only three remained.

She rode south with one of them.

Clegane was a messy eater. She was not a child anymore. She did not have to stop for camp or rest or hide on the King’s Road for her safety. She could ride hard and fast down south. The Hound was her companion.

Arya Stark did not talk much anymore. The Hound had never been one for talking. Their journey was a silent one.

When they were just north of King’s Landing, she could almost smell the shit of the city in the wind, the Hound reared up beside her on his monster of a horse. She watched the distance with unblinking eyes, and she could feel his eyes on her, waiting.

She growled, “What?”

“You sure you wanna go down there, girl?” He posed.

Arya whispered the names, “Joffrey, The Tickler, Polliver, Ser Amory Lorch, Walder Frey, Tywin Lannister, The Red Woman, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Ser Ilyn Payne.”

He nodded, “All dead.”

“Cersei, The Mountain….”

“The Hound,” he finished for her, quietly.

She turned to look at him and her eyes flashed with some kind of deep, contemplative sadness. The world was unkind to little girls. She had been ripped from her family and went hurling down a path of Death. She was His most faithful and devoted servant.

For one shining, beautiful moment, she left that behind. She kissed life and it held her right back. The promise of tomorrow saw her scars and did not shutter or revolt or turn away. Instead, he held her close and kissed her fiercely.

And when she had served Death, again, plunging a dagger into the icy flesh of the undead, she had thought perhaps He had finally released her of His service. She burned the dead. Life came looking for her. Life kissed her again and rambled about his true name—Baratheon. He offered her the future, but it sounded too much like a promise from another life. Her father, her dead father, had spoken of the same future many years ago.

Her father died.

She was not a lady.

Death was still her master.

Three names gripped her heart with a tight, suffocating hold. She looked at the Hound and let one go. She shook her head, “Cersei and The Mountain.”

The large, cutthroat blinked in surprise. Then, his eyes narrowed, “I’ve only got one name on my list.”

Arya looked back to the horizon and kicked her horse in motion.

* * *

The Northern forces had already set up camp. It had been abandoned. Arya could hear the screams of the battle behind the castle walls. The Dragon Queen was laying siege to the city and the forces had been deployed to kill Lannister soldiers and the Golden Company.

She was late for the battle.

The chaos made slipping into the city easy. No one looked at one small, slip of a girl. Like water, she glided through the crowds that tried to run for safety as Northmen and Dothraki and the Unsullied crossed blades with their enemies.

She heard a man scream. She heard a woman sob. Death took them all for His own.

But where there was death, there was also Life.

And hers was in the thick of the fighting, shouting, “Hold the line!”

Arya turned, panic clutching her heart, and saw him leading a contingent of men. They sported Baratheon colors. The bannermen from Storm’s End had come for their Lord. The past wolloped her with memories.  

_Be my wife. Be the Lady of Storm’s End._

She shouted across the makeshift battlefield, “Gendry!”

His eyes whirled to her and widened. With hammer in hand, he pulverized another opponent, bashing their brains in. Life, it seemed, served Death, too. “Arya!” he yelled back. His attackers did not relent and soon his attention was diverted.

She stood, frozen in fear, as the crowd of soldiers looked to overwhelm him and his men. Yet, he beat them back every time. He was stronger than strong. He was a mighty stag that trampled every man that opposed him. If she was quick and efficient death, he was strong and brutal killing.

He broke in another soldier’s face and the blood splattered on him, painting his cheek bones in a gruesome blush. “Arya,” he yelled, again. She realized he had lost sight of her. The names called for her, drawing her closer and closer to the center of the Capital where Cersei and The Mountain awaited their destiny by her blade.

She left her Life on the battlefield, shouting her name as he battled legions of men.

Arya Stark sent a silent prayer to the God of Death. _Spare him_ , she thought, _and you can have my name, instead_.

* * *

The Hound was mortally wounded. In the Throne Room, he choked on his own blood as whatever was left of his brother hacked away at him with his sword. Arya wanted to scream. She had once hated the animal that ran Mycah down like a dog. She had whispered his name in the Riverlands and the Eyrie and Braavos.

Now, she yelled it in horror.

The Mountain stopped swinging his blade and stumbled toward her. She was not afraid. She had killed the undead. She would do it, again.

The Mountain was not the Night King. He was too big and moved gracelessly as he tried to saw her through with the large blade that had once taken Ned Stark’s head. Yet, it moved in his hand with the same familiarity that Needle moved in her grip. It was a second arm.

So, she lopped it away, wrist and all.

The Mountain did not shout in pain or even revolt at the bleeding sight. He tried to strangle her with his remaining arm and she chopped it away. Arya gawked at the grisly display. The Mountain was not human. He continued to charge for her as he bled out from the stumps that once held his hands.

And when he charged at her head, she cut his off, too.

It fell to the ground, mercilessly, and the blank, dead eyes stared as unseeing as they had on his shoulders at the ceiling. Arya Stark checked a name off of her list.

She dropped Needle and scrambled across the floor to the Hound. He was filled with holes. His flesh was marred and taped together by threads of skin that valiantly remained in tact. She frowned and he choked a dark, miserable laugh. “Don’t go crying for me now, girl,” he gargled on the blood that leaked from his lips. “He’s dead.”

She nodded, “He’s dead.”

“Good,” he barely managed to speak. He was drowning on what was left of his voice. He met her eyes and she found the strength to look back. Some men deserved to find the God of Death in peace. Sandor Clegane had earned His mercy. He did not need to speak. She knew what the pools of his eyes were asking her to do.

She felt her stomach drop. She would complete her list, after all, it seemed.

Her gloved hands grasped the Hound’s bloodied ones. He squeezed her fingers with the last surge of strength he could muster and Arya, the true and faithful friend of the dying man, ended The Hound.

* * *

She was too late for Cersei. When she arrived, the Mad Queen was sprawled out on the map of Westeros, bleeding across the Riverlands. The servant of Death smiled. Her list had been born in that land and it ended there, too.

* * *

 Somewhere, the Lord of Light, the God of Death, smiled.

A girl had finished her list.

* * *

She stumbled out into the Throne Room and Lord Gendry Baratheon, the last of his father’s great house, was staring at the empty throne. It had been Robert Baratheon’s once, that bleeding chair. Arya could not count how many had died for such a useless hunk of metal, stitched together ages ago by some poor bastard of a blacksmith. And Gendry, by right, had a claim to it.

He looked away from the chair when he heard her enter. He positively lit up. Gendry Baratheon abandoned the throne and rushed across the room to crush her into his arms. Life met Death and melted.

Arya clutched at the back of his leathers and sobbed into his shoulder. “You’re alive,” he whispered.

She buried his nose against his warmth and took it all in like the greedy Northern girl she had always been. “Clegane is dead,” she said.

Gendry clasped the back of her head, cradling her against his chest, and took a deep breath. She held him tighter. He squeezed her bones. Baratheon and Stark swayed together in a desperate embrace in the ruined Throne Room.

* * *

Arya did not try to count the dead, after the battle. She did not take stock of what they had lost. She held onto what she had gained. Arya Stark had not let go of Gendry Baratheon’s hand since they had reunited.

There was time, now. Time after. Time to talk about it all. The years. The scars. The new world they had been unceremoniously plunged into after ages of fighting.

The Servant of Death was not certain what she was going to do now with time. Life, the last of the Baratheon house, had some ideas.  


End file.
